Riflessione
by Cornadopia
Summary: Sometimes he loses himself in a nonsensical ramble. He doesn't know what he's saying, and neither does anyone. Modern English. Mercutio/Benvolio implied.


Hi, people reading this. Thank you for doing so.

This is a quick little oneshot, based on what I guess Mercutio might have been like if he started to act ... dare I say it ... emo. Labels are for jars, I know, but there are so many takes on Mercutio's character that I just decided to try it out for myself.

WARNING: Language in this is modern, not to mention rated pg-13.

This has nothing to do with anything else I've written for "Romeo and Juliet" on this site. Set three years before.

Disclaimer: Non ho proprio Romeo e Giulietta. Or something.

Dedication: *sigh*

Anway, enjoy, and of course review, if you want. Or if you don't. Please, just do.

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Letter One (found on the floor of Mercutio's bed chamber)

_Dear Benvolio,_

_I am writing you this letter to talk about what happened in the piazza today. It was not my intention to_

Letter Two (found crumpled next to the hearth)

_Dear Benvolio,_

_This letter isn't about what you think it is. I know I usually don't write letters. I'm more of a talker. But this is important. _

_You and Romeo were wrong to have asked me to calm down today. I wasn't causing all that much of a problem - only a few people were staring, only one person laughed, and everyone else just stood clear of me. It was embarassi_

Letter Three (found in pieces outside of Mercutio's window)

Dear Benvolio,

_**I'm not crazy.**_ _I barely ever go into those rants anymore, and I don't talk about just nothing. You and Romeo and the others are the ones who are too stupid to even listen to me. It's not like I fucking talk about fairies and shit for no reason, because there's always a reason. You're the ones who don't listen to what I mean._

_What I mean is _

. . .

Mercutio sighed. He didn't even know what he meant. He never did, when he went off into his own little world that way. Who would know?

He sat up on his bed, the sun blinding him temporarily. Lights popped in front of his eyes. He groaned; he never reacted well to sitting still for too long. Maybe his friends had been right today; maybe even those people in the street who glared at him like he was crazy had been right. There had to be something wrong with him.

It had been that way for his entire life. Mercutio had been scorned one too many times for being too wild by his elders. They'd taken him to every priest and doctor in Verona, to no avail. There was nothing wrong, per se, with him. But when he looked in the mirror, and heard himself talk, he knew there was.

There was a knock on the door to his bed chamber. He didn't answer. It had to be a servant, probably telling him that his father was ready to punish him for today now, or that a friend had come by to talk to him. The knock persisted. He removed one of his boots and threw it at the door, cursing the age of sixteen; when would he finally be at that point where he'd be able to leave his house and his parents and be a man?

Men didn't act like he did. No one acted like he did, for that matter; he knew there was something very different about him. He didn't know where to begin.

For one thing, he didn't care what people thought about him. Being related to the prince didn't prompt him to act like a stuck-up, fashionable jackass like his perfect cousin Paris or his brother Valentine. It just didn't occur to him that being hung up on what people thought should even matter to anyone. There was something more to the world than that.

For another thing, his mood changed quickly. It was a dangerous thing, but he'd been that way forever. He'd never been content to relax, not when everything was there upon him, waiting to be tried out; every thing, every feeling was waiting to be felt. He didn't want to miss it. He wanted it all... wasn't that it?

And lastly, he'd realized, were his interests. He had many. He was content in doing what his friends liked, as long as it didn't have to do with love or maids. The closest thing he ever felt to 'love' (what a stupid word it was) was for his friends, but that was respect, admiration. He'd die for them, as long as they didn't suggest he 'loved' them. 'Love' was one thing he didn't seem to have a taste for. Surely, everyone else felt pangs of it once in awhile, but he didn't want to. It took too long. It was so tedious a thing.

Besides, there was a deeper feeling that he thought might be realted to love that he liked better. He didn't know what it was called, but he'd feel it at random times that he couldn't keep track of. It was exciting. He knew it was what triggered his vulgar, obscene sense of humor, but he was a virgin either way. The feeling invaded his dreams, scared him, confused him. And what was worse, he didn't ever have time to think about it straightly.

Mercutio groaned again and put his face in his hands, cursing the feeling. He cursed the feeling and cursed these dreams, and cursed his inability to stand still. He was sixteen now. Romeo was fifteen and he'd already grown up. Benvolio was sixteen too, and he seemed to mature in his gentle, masculine grace every day. And all of his other friends had matured, as well. Mercutio had never thought of himself as mature or immature or anything in between. Mercutio was just Mercutio.

Mercutio didn't know how much longer he could stand himself, how much longer the world could stand him. Pushing himself off of the bed with an enormous feat of strength, he sat at his desk again and started to write another letter.

_Dear Benvolio_

He waited. Nothing.

"Dammit," he muttered, scribbling the piece of parchment all over. He started again.

_Dear_

"Pssh. Yeah, he's _real _dear." He spat on the parchment and started again.

_benvolio,_

_I'm not capitalizing your name because you're a jackass._

Mercutio stung with anger.

"Why do I feel nothing but anger all the time?" he screamed to the Heavens. "Would you ever let me feel what other people feel, just for a day? WILL I _ALWAYS_ THINK DIFFERENT?"

There was another knock on the door.

"Get the _hell _out of here!" Mercutio yelled.

To his surprise, the knocking stopped. That ever so familiar mixture of serenity and humiliation returned to him. He waved it away, sighing.

"Come in," he said, sinking onto his bed again.

The door opened. Mercutio somehow knew whenever Benvolio was around.

Benvolio gave Mercutio a false smile and dusted off his hose. Mercutio didn't feel as though there was enough energy in his body to even throw something at Benvolio, who was now casually strolling over to the desk and looking through Mercutio's papers.

"I wouldn't come near me, if I were you," Mercutio hissed. "You won't like me when I'm mad."

"Shh. I'm reading," Benvolio said, reading Mercutio's latest letter. "Jackass, huh? That's a new one."

Mercutio rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up." He fell over onto his shoulder and lay on it until it fell asleep.

Examining the floor, which was a mess of crumpled parchment, Benvolio flopped himself down next to his friend. "These letters all for me? I'm flattered."

Mercutio didn't answer. Benvolio paused. Mercutio was able to predict when Benvolio would start speaking again, and mouthed it mockingly when he did.

"Petruchio's telling everyone you're crazy," he reported. "He said you were talking about a place you thought you actually saw. People are saying you get hallucinations. Calling you Mercutio Hallucio."

"That sucks," Mercutio spat. He'd been blocking out Benvolio's speech while singing some vulgar song he'd made up a few months ago that had caught on among his friends. Now there was a silence. Mercutio didn't care. He listened for the door to open, when Benvolio would finally leave - even if Mercutio wasn't so sure he wanted to be alone with himself again.

"Your father's mad," Benvolio said. "Told me to remind you of that. He said you were gonna be screwed once he called you down there -"

"I don't care!" Mercutio said suddenly. He was on his feet before he realized it. "My father can go ahead and beat me with a rolling pin, and I still wouldn't care! Don't you know there are worse things than physical pain, Benvolio?"

Benvolio shrugged. "Yeah, I know, but your father wouldn't hit you. You're sixteen."

Mercutio suddenly felt very hot. "Fine, whatever, fine."

"You're not making any sense," Benvolio laughed.

"Yeah? Well, let me tell you something, I know that much! I don't make sense to anyone. Not my father, not my mother -"

"Now you're talking like -"

"_Don't you tell me I'm talking like Romeo_." Mercutio's voice barked over the words. The look he gave Benvolio made Benvolio want to shudder. "You know, Benvolio, I'm not sure why you even came here today, just to remind me that not everyone is perfect like you? Not everyone is clear and easy and calm like _you_? Well, I'm really sorry to tell you this, but _you're _the one who came today and _you're_ the one who always comes back after I go into those rant modes! So if you just can't take in the fact that I don't make sense, why don't you go over to Romeo's, where you can pick flowers and talk about pretty girls and sit around and _whine about it_?!?"

He let out an explosive groan and sat on his windowsill, turned away from Benvolio. Saying all that got everything out of Mercutio but the anger, and all those unidentifiable bits of emotion under the anger. He was positive that Benvolio would leave, but Benvolio susprised him and poked him on the shoulder.

"I said I'm MAD!" Mercutio yelled. "Don't touch me when I'm MAD!"

There was a brief silence. Benvolio's eyes widened for a moment, and Mercutio kept looking angry.

Then, unexpecedly, they both burst into hysterical laughter. It was so powerful that Benvolio's face was turning red and Mercutio had to pound on the wall. It continued for minutes and minutes, until the two of them sat down on the windowsill again, catching their breath and still beaming.

Benvolio was beating his hands against his thighs to mantain his voice. "I never said you didn't make sense," he choked. "I said you weren't making sense, at that moment."

"Yeah, I know what you meant," Mercutio admitted, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "I was just..."

He had started to say 'mad', but he had to laugh again.

"I hope you don't really think I'm perfect," Benvolio sighed. "'Cause if you do, you really are Mercutio Hallucio."

Mercutio continued to catch his breath and held up a finger, reserving a comment. "That is the stupidest name I've ever heard. I almost want it to catch on. Just so I can laugh at the idiots who use it on me."

Benvolio simpered. "You think it's gonna happen again? You know the whole ... rant thing?" he added when Mercutio cocked his head.

Mercutio thought about it. He jumped down onto the floor. "Hell yes," Mercutio said. "It's about every month now, isn't it? I intend to keep it that way."

Benvolio shook his head.

"Now, come on," Mercutio said. "Let's get downstairs. We've gotta sneak past my father."

"Hey, Mercutio."

Mercutio turned around.

Benvolio avoided his gaze, but said, "Don't ever change, okay?"

Mercutio beamed again. The two of them went downstairs with their arms around each other's shoulders.


End file.
